


Joyride

by elysiumwaits



Series: Weekly Werewolf Sitcom [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Derek is a Good Alpha, M/M, Pack Dad Derek Hale, Pack Family, Pack Mom Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Stilinski is Eighteen Years Old, healthy communication is my kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-19
Updated: 2019-07-19
Packaged: 2020-07-08 10:21:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19867999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elysiumwaits/pseuds/elysiumwaits
Summary: Stiles manages to get one eye open. “What is it? He finally let you take a joyride in the Camaro and you took out a mailbox? It can’t be that bad.” It’s meant to be an attempt at soothing her panic - it’s an inside joke, really, the idea that no matter what happens, it will never be as bad as what would happen if you wrecked Derek’s beloved car.Erica’s silence, however, is telling.“You wrecked the Camaro?!” Stiles says in disbelief.





	Joyride

**Author's Note:**

> This belongs to an AU in my head where everyone lives, no one dies, nothing is as serious as it seems, and they’re all one big happily werewolf family. Oh, and also they can somehow shift fully into wolves, because I like that. I also bumped Stiles up in age - my reasoning is held back a year in kindergarten, therefore older than everyone else. 
> 
> I'll probably make it a series because I imagine I will add more of this AU as time goes on.
> 
> Feel free to send prompts and such to elysiumwaits.tumblr.com if you want. I'm very friendly, if a little awkward.

Somewhere along the way, toward the end of senior year, when everything dies down a little bit and there’s a quiet lull in the supernatural horror show that is their lives, the pack seems to suddenly realize that they have three collective brain cells, and Stiles is in possession of two of them. Derek has the other one, and it  _ can  _ be argued that Peter occasionally lends his  _ half  _ of a brain cell when push comes to shove. Lydia also has quite a few brain cells that can be borrowed, but only on her terms and when the right conditions are met. 

So, at any given moment, when the situation is not desperate or dire, the pack has three brain cells total, and they belong to Derek and Stiles. 

And the thing is that none of the betas have great home lives. They don’t have people who know their furry little secrets and love them in spite of or because of it. What they have is Derek, who is really growing into this whole Alpha thing if Stiles is being honest. Derek’s working on fixing up the Hale house as a pack house, and is trying very hard to make it seem like it’s Not a Big Deal, even though Stiles knows it is a Very Big Deal. Derek’s got the Hale inheritance divided into college funds. Derek is the resident badass, the protector, the first call when things go to hell in a handbasket and you’re not sure if you’re going to make it out alive.

_ However _ .

Derek is not good at emotions, and he is  _ definitely _ not good at communication, which means that Derek communicating his emotions is like pulling nails out of a board with a butter knife - if you have enough patience and determination, you can do it, but holy hell is it hard. Derek speaks like a born wolf, Stiles thinks, in nuances and body language rather than with words. Unfortunately, he is surrounded by bitten wolves who speak like humans - and not humans who are particularly good at communicating either. 

What this means is that things get miscommunicated a  _ lot _ . Feelings get hurt, arguments break out, all because everyone involved has never, apparently, spoken to another person in their entire lives. Add in everyone’s evident desire to be the biggest asshole in the room at any given moment, and all you really get is a headache and slamming doors.

_ Somehow _ , this has translated to Stiles becoming the mediator, which in turn has translated into Stiles becoming some kind of pseudo-parental figure that everyone calls when shit hits the fan (but not in the people-are-dying way. Derek is the obvious first call in that situation, but even then, Stiles is the second). 

Ultimately, all this really means is that Stiles doesn’t get to sleep in on the weekends anymore, because he suddenly sprouted about five (sometimes six, occasionally seven) not-exactly-human children.

Case in point: it is nine-thirty in the godforsaken morning on a Saturday, and Stiles’ phone is ringing. He has a split second where he thinks about just letting it ring, but he has this momentary thought of someone stranded on top of a telephone pole  _ again _ , so he gropes for it blindly and answers it by lifting his face from the pillow but resolutely not opening his eyes.

“I need help,” Erica says as soon as he answers.

“Are you dying?” Stiles asks, but still doesn’t open his eyes.

“I might be soon.” She sounds panicked, yes, but not in that oh-god-we’re-all-gonna-die way.

The pillow makes a soft little thump sound when Stiles drops his head back onto it, turning his face so he can still speak. “You know the rules, Erica. If you’re actively dying, you call Derek.”

“I  _ absolutely _ cannot call Derek,” Erica says, and oh,  _ now _ , she sounds panicked. Still not in that oh-god-we’re-all-gonna-die way, though, so there’s that.

Stiles manages to get one eye open. “What is it? He finally let you take a joyride in the Camaro and you took out a mailbox? It can’t be  _ that _ bad.” It’s meant to be an attempt at soothing her panic - it’s an inside joke, really, the idea that no matter what happens, it will never be as bad as what would happen if you wrecked Derek’s beloved car.

Erica’s silence, however, is telling.

“You  _ wrecked the Camaro _ ?!” Stiles says in disbelief, and the other eye pops open at that. “Are you okay? Where are you?”

“I didn’t hotwire it or anything. Just in the lot at his apartment,” Erica says, sounding miserable, and then quieter, “I didn’t make it very far.”

“You just  _ barely _ got your license, Erica. You passed with the clear instruction that Derek should be the one to drive us home,” Stiles says, definitely more awake now. “And you want me to believe that Derek trusted you with the Camaro?”

“I had the key!” she says, like she knows she’s already lost this one.

“But he didn’t actually give you permission, did he?” Stiles blows out a sigh, kisses his lazy Saturday plans goodbye, and rolls out of bed. “Just... sit tight, I’ll be right there.” At Erica’s frankly depressing affirmative, he hangs up and grabs a pair of pants off of the floor. For a brief moment, he stares at the phone and debates calling Derek, but decides he’d better see how bad the actual damage is first before he gets a worried-about-Erica-but-also-upset-about-his-car Alpha involved.

Maybe it’s something some touch-up paint can fix?

* * *

“Well, the bad news is that touch-up paint will  _ not  _ fix this,” Stiles says with a grimace, staring at the driver’s side of Derek’s poor, poor car. 

“What if we bought all of the touch-up paint?” Erica asks almost desperately. She’s got her hands clenched together and an expression that Stiles imagines is similar to one that someone on their way to the guillotine might wear.

“I am honestly not sure that they sell enough touch-up paint in one store to fix this,” Stiles says carefully, and takes a deep breath. “Erica, I have to ask - did you  _ keep _ backing up after you started scraping against the mailbox here?” He points to the start of the god-awful gash on the side of the car. The apartment mailbox is still standing, by some miracle, doesn’t seem damaged at all, so they probably won’t have to pay for anything there. Derek’s car, on the other hand, has definitely seen better days. It almost hurts looking at it.

Erica drops her face into her hands. “I panicked and gunned it,” she says, slightly muffled by her own palms.

“Right,” Stiles says. “Because the obvious response to hitting something with your car is just… hit it more.”

Erica groans. “What do I  _ do _ , Stiles? I mean, can we drive it somewhere and say it was stolen? So when it turns up abandoned he’ll have no idea it was me?”

“ _ No _ , Erica. One, he’ll know if we lie.” Stiles drops one arm around her shoulders, lets her drop her head back onto him. “Two, you know that’s not what you need to do.”

“I can’t tell Derek I stole his car and wrecked it!” Her hands are still over her face, and Stiles has the sneaking suspicion from the sound of her voice that she may actually be close to crying. “He’ll be so upset.”

“He’ll be more upset if you lie about it,” Stiles says. “Look, you don’t have to wait for him out here, you can go calm down in the apartment, and I’ll talk to him first. But you  _ will _ have to talk to him. If you run out on this, I will… do something very terrible, I don’t know, but I will definitely be incredibly disappointed, and so will Derek.”

Erica nods, finally dropping her hands, and yep, her eyes are awfully red and kind of wet. “Will you stop him if he tries to kill me?”

Stiles snorts. “He won’t try to kill you. He will probably give you his disappointed face. He might make you work off the cost of this _ pretty expensive  _ repair by helping out with the renovations.”

“He won’t kick me out of the pack?”

“No, Erica, he won’t kick you out.” Stiles pats her shoulder, and then holds out his hand. “Give me the keys, and go inside.” 

“Thanks,” she sighs, looking a lot like the dictionary definition for “guilty” or maybe “miserable,” and heads back through the doors to head up to Derek’s apartment.

Stiles pockets the keys and surveys the damage one last time with a sigh and wince. It’s a shame that Derek doesn’t take his phone on his Saturday morning runs through the Preserve - there’s not a point, honestly, considering he would have no way to carry it as a wolf. Then, Stiles could at least give him a heads up.

The good news is that Stiles doesn’t have to wait long. He’s barely settled his weight against the back bumper before he spots Derek making his way across the apartment parking lot. Stiles lifts a hand to wave, shifts to stand straight, and meets Derek before he can come around the side and see what Erica’s pride had wrought.

“Hey.” Derek reaches out a hand to very briefly run it down Stiles’ arm before he pulls away again. They’re careful about PDA, still, despite the fact that Stiles has been eighteen for almost a year now, mostly because he’s still got two months left of high school, and Derek still doesn’t have the greatest reputation in town what with the whole being-framed-for-murder thing. 

Also, Stiles is only 78% that his dad wouldn’t shoot Derek on sight if it got back to him, but then Stiles is only 62% sure that his dad doesn’t already know. 

“I thought you were sleeping in today,” Derek says, eyebrows coming together despite his subtly-pleased expression at getting to see Stiles before they planned. Stiles doesn’t usually stay on Friday nights, because once Derek leaves the bed for his run, Stiles can’t get back to sleep. It’s just easier to start out in his own bed.

Stiles takes a deep breath. “Erica called,” he says, trying to come across as calm and probably just managing foreboding instead, if the look on Derek’s expression  _ now _ is anything to judge by.

“Is she okay? I thought I was the first call if anyone was dying.” 

Stiles nods, slowly. “She is physically fine, and I’m going to need you to remember that in just a second.” He moves, leads Derek around to the driver’s side of the Camaro, and then sighs again as he looks at the damage one more time. “Apparently, the condition for calling you when they’re dying is that you not be the cause of their death.”

There’s a moment of absolute silence between them. Stiles isn’t actually sure that Derek’s breathing, right up until Derek crouches down and traces one finger along part of the gash. He looks  _ devastated _ , and the expression tugs at Stiles’ heart when Stiles remembers Derek telling him about how the car was Laura’s, how it was the last thing that she ever gave him. 

Then, the look is gone, replaced by some kind of resigned and exasperated mask, and Derek stands up again. He takes the keys Stiles holds out. “She inside?”

“Yep,” Stiles says, shoving his hands in his pockets as he looks back at the car again. “She hopped in for a joyride, hit the mailbox, panicked, and hit the gas. Which is why it’s… as bad as it is.”

Derek nods, taking it all in. “Mailbox didn’t look too bad, so at least I won’t have to pay for that.” He drags his eyes back to the car. “Jesus. We probably should have waited another six months to do her test.”

A huff of a laugh escapes Stiles. “Yeah, well, that car is  _ obviously _ already out of the garage.”

Derek looks up then, and Stiles turns his head, follows his gaze to see Erica slinking out of the doors of the building, shoulders hunched as she walks. She doesn’t say anything when she makes it over to them, looking every inch the kicked puppy. 

She won’t look either of them in the face, and Stiles exchanges a look with Derek before Derek crosses his arms and puts on the disappointed face that he’d warned her about.

“I’m sorry,” she says, after a long, tense silence, while staring at the ground. “I didn’t mean to wreck your car.”

Derek watches her for a moment. Stiles is honestly not sure how this is going to go - Derek could yell, and while Stiles doesn’t really think that method counts as effective communication, he does understand that it was  _ Laura’s car _ , one of Derek’s most prized possessions. And, quite frankly, Erica fucked up.

“I’m not upset about the car, Erica,” Derek finally says, and Stiles admits he’s a little surprised. 

Erica is too, apparently. Her eyes shoot up to search Derek’s face. “You’re not?”

“No.” Derek uncrosses his arms. “I’m upset that you tried to drive it after I’ve asked you not to, and I’m upset that you could have hurt yourself and someone else, because you made a reckless decision.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, but works really hard not to say anything.  _ That _ was a whole lot of effective communication, complete with ‘I’ statements and emotions. He almost wants to golf clap.

“The damage to the car I can pay for, or my insurance will deal with it. I can even get a whole new Camaro, and it would be fine,” Derek goes on. “But there is only one Erica in this pack. I can’t replace you if you wrap yourself around a tree or roll the car off some cliff because you took it as some kind of challenge when you asked to drive the Camaro and I said no.”

Erica’s lip is decidedly wobbly again, which is incredibly disconcerting considering Stiles can count the amount of times he’s actually seen her with tears on her cheeks on one hand. He’s not good when Erica cries - Allison can cry and Stiles can be a shoulder, Lydia cried  _ once  _ and Stiles let her shop on his laptop while she did it, hell, Stiles is  _ amazing _ when Scott cries. Erica? Erica is Stiles’ ultimate weakness when it comes to people crying.

“So,” Derek says, “you’re going to spend the afternoons next week helping me at the house. You’re going to drive us there, you’re going to drive us back. Got it?”

Erica nods, gives a tentative, completely too shy to be in character smile to Derek, a brighter one to Stiles, before striding away like nothing ever happened. She’s heading down the street, instead of heading into the apartment, and Stiles would normally offer her a ride  _ except _ he knows she’ll be fine, and he feels like Derek could use some cuddling and positive reinforcement after that  _ amazing _ display of emotional and social intelligence.

“That was a punishment and a reward wrapped up into one,” Stiles says as Derek takes one last long look at the side of the car and shakes his head.

They start meandering to the apartment. “Yeah, well.” Derek sighs, put-upon. “She’ll probably do it again, with or without permission. I might as well make sure she can make it out of the parking lot.” He glances back over his shoulder, and then throws an arm out in the vague, general direction of the spacious exit and the apartment mailbox. “How did she even back into it? Why was she going in reverse out of the lot instead of just backing out of the space and turning the car  _ around  _ to leave? _ Why did she gun it after she hit it _ ?”

“You still buying her a car for graduation?” Stiles can’t keep the amusement out of his voice as Derek holds the foyer door open for him. “Maybe you should get her something used, so when she totals it you’re not out a ton of money.”

“Yeah, I’ll still get her a car,” Derek grumbles. “But only because if I don’t she’ll keep asking me if she can borrow mine, and I’d like to keep the chances of this happening again to a minimum.”

Stiles nods, slides under Derek’s arm when he gets the door open to his apartment. “You know I haven’t gotten to sleep through a Saturday morning in six weeks? Every single Saturday, I have to get out of bed and deal with some crazy crisis, courtesy of your Betas. It’s like living in a werewolf sitcom with the occasional terrifying Halloween episode.”

He’s walking towards the kitchen when Derek snags him by the belt loops, drags him back so that Stiles’ back is pressed to Derek’s chest. Stiles smiles, feels Derek nose his way into the crook of Stiles’ neck. 

“We could always go back to bed,” Derek says, “but I can’t guarantee that I’ll let you sleep.”

All’s well that ends well, Stiles thinks - car can be repaired, Erica may have actually learned her lesson, and Stiles has a hot werewolf boyfriend who wants to drag him back to bed. “Is this the fade-to-black ending of the family-friendly sitcom episode?” he asks, reaches an arm back to tangle his fingers in Derek’s hair.

Derek snorts. “Trust me, it won’t be family-friendly here in about ten minutes.”


End file.
